


Bats In My Belfry

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Elephant In The Room [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to Marrakesh with Batman and has an unpleasant experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bats In My Belfry

“Do you think we'll reach land soon?” asked John.

Sherlock glanced up from the laptop. Doctor Gouldbourn had replied to his last email with a complicated discussion of the balance of chemicals in the brain, and it was taking Sherlock more brain power than he would want to admit in order to understand it all.

John was staring out of the window and swaying slightly, as if being rocked up and down by waves. That wouldn't do – they had an appointment later, and it was going to be tricky enough getting John there as it was, without him worrying about them drowning. He thought about trying once again to tell John that he was hallucinating, and that he was already on land and in their home, but just the thought of John's disbelief exhausted him. Not today, not when he had to keep him cooperative. The last thing he wanted was one of John's fits of anger at what he perceived as Sherlock playing games with him.

“Very soon,” he said instead. “Within the next hour, probably.”

John brightened. “Oh good,” he said. “I'm getting rather bored of this ship.” He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “And if I'm a bit bored, then you must be nearly catatonic with inactivity.”

Sherlock found a grin to send him back. If John had stopped being _John_ , then this would be so much easier to deal with, but the fact that he greeted every delusion in the most John way possible always made Sherlock's throat feel as if it was closing up. “Not just yet,” he said. “And there'll be plenty to do later. We have an errand to run.”

“For the case?” asked John, turning away from the window.

“Sort of,” hedged Sherlock. He had no idea what case John thought they were on right now – last week he'd spent a day and a half convinced they were on the trail of Jack the Ripper. When he'd decided they'd solved it, he'd looked at Sherlock with a proud, beaming smile and told him he'd always known that he could do it, and that he was brilliant. Sherlock's emotional reaction to that had been powerful enough necessitate a retreat to the kitchen under the pretext of making tea.

“Well, whatever it is has to be better than watching seagulls,” said John. He glanced back at the window and frowned. “That one has three sets of wings. Some sort of genetic aberration, do you think?”

“Probably,” said Sherlock, turning back to the email and trying to focus. He needed to understand this, or he'd be hearing about mutated animals for the rest of their lives.

About half an hour later, he became aware that John was walking around the flat with purpose, moving things about. He looked away from the textbook in which he was looking up some of Doctor Gouldbourn's terminology to see that John had found an old bag from somewhere and was filling it with random things. He took Sherlock's scarf from the back of the door and added it to the bag, then looked around the room.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock.

“Packing,” said John, heading into the kitchen. A moment later he returned, carrying two of their mugs. “We won't want to waste any time once we're moored, will we?”

He put the mugs in the bag and then paused, his hands on his hips. “Have you seen my gun?” he asked. “I'd hate not to have it if we need it.”

The gun had been the first thing that Sherlock had hidden away when he'd realised that bringing John home was only going to be feasible if he made the flat less dangerous first. “You won't need it,” he said. “Everyone we'll meet will be friendly.”

“But still, I shouldn't leave it behind,” John said. “If it got into the wrong hands-”

“It won't,” said Sherlock. “This room will be kept secure, and we'll be coming straight back here. There's no need to pack.”

John glanced down at the bag. “You could have said that earlier,” he said, sounding annoyed, then his head flicked around, and his expression changed. “Oh, they've seen the port!” He ran to the windows.

“Marrakesh!” he said with excitement. “I've never been to Africa.”

Damn, Sherlock should have told him they were going to London earlier. Now he was going to be hearing about Marrakesh all afternoon. He glanced at his watch and abandoned the email with a sigh. It would have to wait until they got back. He rang for a taxi, then stood up.

“Get your coat,” he said.

John looked around the room, then down at the bag, which he started pulling things out of it. At the bottom was a blanket, which he swirled around his shoulders.

“That's a blanket, John,” said Sherlock. He strode over to the hooks by the door, got John's coat and offered it to him.

John gave it a suspicious look. “Are you sure?” he asked, hands clinging to the blanket. “It's a bit...” He made a face that conveyed something akin to disgust.

“I know,” said Sherlock, “but you bought it, for some unknown reason.” And that had been when he'd been in his right mind. Sherlock wondered if repairing John's broken mind was also repair his broken sense of fashion.

John reluctantly let the blanket fall and took the coat rather gingerly. “It's going to stand out,” he said.

“No one will notice,” said Sherlock, turning away for his own coat.

Mrs. Hudson tapped lightly on the door, then came in. “Sherlock, your taxi's here,” she said.

“Captain!” said John and threw a perfect salute at her. “Thank you for a really lovely voyage.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. “Oh, it was no trouble, John,” she said. “Pleasure to have you aboard.”

Sherlock glared at her, but didn't tell her off for encouraging him. He'd been doing the same thing, after all.

“We'll be back in a couple of hours,” he said.

She nodded, then glanced around the flat. “I'll have a quick tidy while you're gone, shall I? I know it's hard to balance it all when you're looking after someone.”

“Don't touch my desk,” said Sherlock. “Or my notes.”

She patted his arm. “Of course not, dear. Now, you two run along and have fun.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” said John with another salute, and headed out the door. Sherlock shot Mrs. Hudson an eyeroll, then hurried after him.

 

****

 

The boat waiting to take them to shore was a Venetian gondola, one of the really posh ones with a canopy. It was an unsettling colour, though – so black that it almost looked like it was sucking light in, turning the bright Moroccan sun as dull as an autumn day in London.

“Are you sure?” asked John, hesitating on the ramp down from the ship. “It looks-”

“It's fine,” said Sherlock, putting his hand on John's shoulder and guiding him into the gondola. “Totally safe, no need to worry.”

John settled in and looked around at the interior, which was just as black as the exterior. “It's a bit goth, don't you think?” There was a design embroidered into the canopy, but black on black was tricky to make out, and he had to kneel up to make it out.

“John, sit down,” said Sherlock. John ignored him.

He traced his fingers over the design and then grinned when he realised what it was. “Why didn't you say this was one of your bat-vehicles?” he said. He looked at the Arab who was punting the gondola and realised that, under the tan and the keffiyeh, was a very recognisable face. “Oh, hello Alfred. I didn't recognise you.”

“What's that, mate?” asked Alfred in an extremely convincing Cockney accent. “You'll need to strap in.”

“John, sit down,” said Sherlock again, pulling at John's shoulders and pushing him back against the seat. “Ignore him,” he said to Alfred. “He's got a brain disorder.”

“Sherlock!” said John. “You shouldn't make jokes about that sort of thing.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Just sit still,” he said. “And put your seatbelt on.”

“No seatbelts on a gondola,” John pointed out, settling back and looking out at the waves passing them by. They didn't seem to be heading in to the main docks, but rather skirting the city. Dusty yellow buildings stretched as far as he could see, with a large palace in the distance, onion-shaped turrets stretching up to the sky. Along the shore was a market, brightly coloured stalls arranged all higgledy-piggledy amongst the crowds of people.

“There are seatbelts on this gondola,” said Sherlock firmly. He reached over John and took a firm grip on nothing, then pulled a strip of shining white light across his chest.

“Oh,” said John, staring at it. No matter how many times he saw it, it still always took him back to see Sherlock performing magic with the same dismissive ease that he did everything else. He pulled at the strap, then let go when it made his fingers tingle unpleasantly. “It feels wrong,” he said.

“It's fine,” said Sherlock.

The strap pressed against John's lungs, constricting his breathing. The glow of it grew, until John could feel the tingling through his clothes, an odd pins-and-needles sensation that made him want to squirm away from it. “I don't think your magic likes me,” he said.

Sherlock scowled at him. “It's not magic.”

John touched the strap again, then pulled his hand away when it sent up a spark at the touch. What kind of seatbelts would Batman have on his Bat-Gondola? Some sort of laser, perhaps? “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” he quoted.

Sherlock sent him a bewildered look, then choked out a laugh. It sounded a bit rusty, and John found he couldn't remember the last time he heard Sherlock laugh properly. Clearly this case was taking more of a toll than he'd thought, or maybe the twin pressures of being both Batman and the world's only consulting detective were beginning to wear him down.

“I'm not sure a seatbelt counts as advanced technology,” he said.

“It's advanced enough for me,” said John. The tingling was starting to turn into more of a burn, as if someone had laid a red-hot poker across his chest. “It hurts,” he said. “Take it off.”

“It doesn't hurt,” said Sherlock. “It's fine, John.”

He was wrong. John pulled at the strap, then let it go when it sent up a shower of sparks. “Sherlock!” he said. “It's burning me.”

He fumbled at it clumsily, trying to touch it as little as possible while finding the release mechanism.

Sherlock grabbed his hands and pulled them away. “John,” he said in his calm, firm voice that always made John look at him. “John, it's not hurting you. It's just your imagination.”

John looked into his eyes and tried to believe him, but the pain was building, trapping him against the seat like a rock on his chest. “I don't like it,” he said. “Sherlock, please. I don't like being tied down.”

Sherlock looked pained, and John wondered if his own belt was starting to burn him. “I know,” he said in a rough voice. “John, I know, but it is necessary. I wouldn't make you do it if it wasn't.”

John looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He squeezed Sherlock's fingers, and after a moment Sherlock squeezed back. A pulse of gentle light travelled up John's arms from their joined hands, coalescing in his chest and pushing back the burning pressure of the belt. John sucked in a deep breath.

“Oh, that's much better,” he said. “Thank you.”

Sherlock let go of his hands and pulled away. “No problem,” he said. He looked away, out of the window, and John followed his gaze to see that they had left Marrakesh behind them, and were now heading towards a strip of beach in front of a high, rocky cliff.

“Is that where we're going?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“Oh,” said John, looking again. The shoreline was empty and barren, nothing like the bustling crowds that they'd passed in Marrakesh. “You could have told me we weren't actually going to see the city.”

“I don't have the patience to correct you every time you're wrong, John,” said Sherlock. “Just here is fine,” he said to Alfred.

“Right, mate,” said Alfred, pulling in to the beach.

John climbed out of the gondola with a little jump to get over the waves and save himself from wet feet. Sherlock just ignored the water as if it wouldn't dare touch him, then handed something to Alfred.

“Thanks very much,” said Alfred. “And, ah, I hope your mate feels better soon.”

“So do I,” said Sherlock.

John turned away as Alfred left, looking at the cliff. A figure emerged from a hole he hadn't noticed in it, and it took a couple of moments for John to realise it was a teddy-bear. Where on earth had Sherlock brought him to now?

The bear saw them and waved, heading towards them until John could see that it wasn't an actual giant teddy-bear – of course not, that would have been ridiculous – but a man in a costume.

“Hello,” he said when he got close enough. He held out his paw to John. “It's good to see you, John.”

John looked at his paw, then carefully put out his own hand to shake it. “Uh, thank you,” he said. He glanced at Sherlock, who didn't give him any clues as to what was going on.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get this over with.”

The teddy-bear nodded, and led them back towards the hole in the cliff, which John could now see led to a cave. Inside, he led them through a main cave and down a tunnel which was lined with neon lights. Other caves led off it, revealing stacks of complicated-looking equipment.

“You didn't tell me you had a Batcave here,” said John.

Sherlock let out a long sigh as the teddy-bear glanced back at them. “There are many things I don't tell you, John,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said John. “I don't know why we're here, what we're doing, or even why he's dressed like that.” He gestured at the teddy-bear, who glanced down at himself as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing.

“It's customary,” said Sherlock. “I can't explain the tie though, that defies all explanation.”

“Hey,” protested the bear. “Nothing wrong with this tie. My daughter gave it to me.”

The teddy-bear wasn't wearing a tie, so Sherlock must be talking about what he had on under the bear costume. John let out an exasperated sigh. “I can't see his tie. I can't see through things like you can, you know that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath through his nose. “John,” he said, then stopped himself with a shake of his head. He looked back at the teddy-bear. “Let's just get this over with.”

The teddy nodded. “It's in here,” he said, and led them into a dimly-lit side cave. It was empty except for an oddly-shaped rock in the centre of the room.

“Right,” said Sherlock, glancing at it, then he turned to John. “Okay, I need you to do exactly as I say, John.”

“Of course,” said John, straightening his back and preparing to receive orders.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “I need you to take off your coat, shoes and watch.” He scanned John's body quickly. “And your belt,” he added.

John nodded and did as he'd asked, taking off his shoes and peeling off his coat then handing both to Sherlock, who gave them to the teddy-bear. John pulled off his belt and gave it to Sherlock, then removed his watch.

“Be careful with it,” he said as Sherlock took it. “It was my Dad's.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know,” he said. Well, of course he did. He probably knew its whole history, and the history of the man who'd made it. “I'll look after it, don't worry, John.”

John nodded and Sherlock gave him a brief smile, then continued, in a business-like manner, “I need you to lie down there,” he gestured at a slab of stone that protruded from the rock in the centre of the room, “on your back, and stay still there until I come and get you.”

John looked at the rock, and then back at Sherlock. “You're going somewhere?”

“I'll be close by,” Sherlock promised. “And I'll be able to hear and see you. You just need to lie very, very still, okay? It's really important that you don't move.”

John looked at the slab again. “That seems rather easy,” he said. “I thought from the way you said it that it was going to be something difficult. Or really unpleasant.”

Sherlock gave him a smile that lasted a bit longer. “Would I do that to you, John?”

“Of course you would,” said John.

The teddy-bear laughed. “Trust him to still be crystal-clear on that one,” he said.

Sherlock glared at him, then turned back to John. “Right, are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” said John, and he went over to the slab and lay down, wriggling a bit to find a comfortable position.

The teddy-bear fussed over him for a moment, pulling his head slightly to the left and fiddling with something on the rock. John ignored him in favour of meeting Sherlock's steady gaze. He looked rather tense, so John gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“It's okay,” he said. “This rock isn't nearly as hard as you'd think.”

Sherlock blinked, then found a return smile. “Yes, the NHS somehow manages to afford some comforts,” he said.

That made no sense, but before John could point that out, the teddy-bear straightened up. “All ready,” he said.

Sherlock nodded sharply. “Keep very, very still,” he reminded John. “No matter what happens. I'll be watching you, remember, and I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise.”

That sounded rather serious. John frowned. “What could happen?” he asked.

“With you, almost anything is possible,” said Sherlock, which was no help at all.

Sherlock and the teddy-bear left the cave then, Sherlock give John a long look and another reminder to stay still as he did so. John let out a slow breath and concentrated on lying as still as possible, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and wishing he'd thought to ask how long this was going to take.

There was a clonk, and then a whirring noise, and the slab started to move. John flinched, and then forced himself to hold still as it slowly slid inside the rock. Sherlock had said it would be okay.

“ _Are you okay, John?_ ” said Sherlock's voice inside his head, and John had to stop himself from flinching again. Sherlock was telepathic now as well? Jesus, was there anything he couldn't do?

“Are you in my head?” he said in an awed whisper.

“ _No,_ ” said Sherlock with what sounded like a sigh. “ _There's an intercom, John. Stop assuming everything is magic._ ”

John scowled, hoping Sherlock could somehow sense it, wherever he was. It was pitch black inside the rock, and John could feel how closely it surrounded him. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“ _John?_ ” repeated Sherlock. “ _Are you okay?_ ”

“Fine,” said John. “Why is it so dark?”

“ _It's not_ ,” said Sherlock, and as he spoke, a dim light started to filter in, revealing an expanse of rock that was larger than John would have expected, and larger than the outside of the rock had been.

“Oh, it's bigger on the inside,” he said. “Sherlock, please tell me you're not The Doctor as well.”

“ _Don't be ridiculous,_ ” came Sherlock's voice. “ _You're the doctor. You know that._ ”

John frowned. Was he? He was sure he'd remember being a time-travelling alien. Unless- He suddenly remembered handing Sherlock his watch. Oh, well, that explained that one. There was a movement overhead, and John felt his muscles freeze. Was there something in here with him? The movement came again, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that the dark ceiling above him was composed entirely of bats, all hanging by their feet and staring at him with beady eyes.

He let out a terrified noise that he'd deny later.

“ _John?_ ” asked Sherlock immediately. “ _John, you're doing really well. Just keep still for a bit longer._ ”

Staying still was not a problem now. John couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, and he really didn't want to. If he stayed still, maybe the bats would stay still too, and leave him alone. If he moved, they might all decide to flock at him, or whatever it was that bats did.

“ _John?_ ” said Sherlock again, sounding more frantic. “ _What's going on?_ ”

“You bastard,” hissed John in a harsh whisper. He didn't want to yell and disturb the bats, but he still wanted to make his feelings known. “You know how I feel about bats – there was really no need for this.”

There was a long pause from Sherlock. “ _I'm sorry, John,_ ” he said eventually, “ _but it is really important._ ”

John made a face at that. “Just because you're obsessed with the damn things doesn't mean everybody has to be,” he said. There was a movement from the bats, a rippling as they shifted, and he froze up again. Oh god, how much longer did he have to be in here?

“ _Nothing will hurt you in there,_ ” said Sherlock again. “ _Just keep still._ ”

John forced a breath out of his nose rather than let out what he really wanted to say to Sherlock. The bats all shifted again, eyes staring at him. None of them had flown at him, though, and Sherlock seemed completely confident that they wouldn't hurt John. They must be some of his trained bats. John felt himself relax slightly at that thought, even if it meant that they'd come all the way to Marrakesh and this cave just so that Sherlock could put him in this situation. The bastard.

There was a thumping noise from somewhere in the darkness. John flinched again, and then frowned at himself. He was letting a bit of darkness and some flying rodents get him far more worked up than was really warranted. He took another careful breath, forcing himself to calm down. _Don't think about the bats_ , he thought, although he couldn't take his eyes off them.

Instead, he concentrated on Sherlock. Why was he doing this? He did know how John felt about bats, because he'd mentioned it before, more than once, when they'd been off doing Batman things. Why then was he subjecting John to this? Try as he might, he couldn't think of any way that this could be for a case, unless Sherlock was gauging the reactions of the bats to a stranger in their territory to see how likely it was that they'd killed someone.

A bat directly above him spread its wings as if to stretch them, and John bitterly regretted thinking that. He could already imagine them all flocking at him, clawing at him as they smothered him with their leathery wings and nasty, hairy little bodies. He wondered if they had teeth like the vampire bats in Hammer Horror films, or if that was just Hollywood hyperbole.

“Has there been a bat-related murder?” he asked.

“ _No,_ ” said Sherlock immediately. “ _Bats don't hurt people, John, you know that._ ”

It was all very well for him to sound so confident about it – he wasn't the one trapped in here with them. Beady eyes weren't watching his every breath, as if just waiting for a hint of weakness before they struck.

There was another thump from somewhere in the cave, and the bats all moved again. One let go of the ceiling long enough to flit across to a new location, and John found himself holding his breath until it landed.

“ _Even the so-called vampire bats only rarely attack humans._ ”

Trust Sherlock to think that would be reassuring. The bats had all settled at the sound of Sherlock's voice, curling their wings around their bodies as if preparing to listen.

“Keep talking,” said John.

There was another pause, and some of the bats started to grow restless again, then Sherlock said, “ _Bats are the only mammals that can fly and they make up a quarter of all mammals. There are more than a thousand species._ ”

The bats calmed, and John tried to decide if that was worth having to listen to a lecture on bats.

“Which species are these ones?” he asked.

“ _I have no idea, John,_ ” said Sherlock, sounding terse. “ _I can't see them._ ”

John looked at one of the bats more carefully. “They're brown, and about the size of my hand,” he said.

“ _Oh, clearly they're Greater Brown John's-Hand Bats,_ ” said Sherlock.

“No need for sarcasm,” said John.

“ _You could not be more wrong,_ ” said Sherlock. “ _There is always need for sarcasm._ ”

The bats were still watching John, but somehow they seemed less threatening now. Perhaps having Sherlock talk to him had made them realise that he was friends with him. They wouldn't want to hurt Batman's friend.

“ _Not much longer, John,_ ” said Sherlock.

“Good,” said John. “I'm beginning to cramp up.”

One of the bats spread its wings wide again, and rather than letting terror run down his spine at the thought, John focussed on it, taking in the shape and structure of the wings. There was nothing he could compare it to in any other part of the animal kingdom. No wonder Sherlock was obsessed with them; they were as unique as he was. The World's Only Consulting Detective and The World's Only Flying Mammals. It sounded like a rather bad circus act.

There was another clunk, then the light began to fade away. “Sherlock,” said John, losing the composure he had had in the face of not being able to see the damned things.

“ _Keep calm, John,_ ” said Sherlock. “ _You've done extremely well, it's nearly over._ ”

John took a deep breath, then felt rather than saw that he was moving again, sliding back out of the rock and into the brightness of the cave. The moment he stopped moving, Sherlock came bursting in. He looked John over, then gave a quick nod at whatever he saw.

“All done,” he said. “You can get up now.”

John carefully sat up, rubbing at his face. “I don't suppose I'll ever find out what that was about,” he said.

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. “I very much hope that one day this will all become clear to you,” he said.

There was a great deal more restrained emotion in his voice than John would have expected, and he frowned at him, wondering if he'd get a straight answer if he asked. Before he could say anything, though, the teddy-bear entered the cave carrying John's things. Or what had become of John's things.

“Oh, what have you done?” he asked, standing up and taking his coat from him.

“Nothing,” said the teddy-bear.

“It's fine, John, it's exactly as it was before,” said Sherlock.

“Are you blind?” John asked, holding the coat up, and shaking it a bit so that the ridiculous yellow cape that had been stitched to the back of it flapped. “Is this- Oh, oh hell no, Sherlock, I don't care how important being Batman is to you, I am _not_ being your Robin.”

The teddy-bear started to laugh, although he coughed into his paw and tried to hide it.

“Being my-?” asked Sherlock, then stopped and looked at the ceiling as if asking for strength from a deity John knew he had no interest in. “John, it's just a coat. Put it on so that we can go home.”

John glared at him. “No, Sherlock, you can't just keep dictating things to me like this. I am not interested in dressing like an idiot just to bring criminals to justice.”

“You say that as if I hadn't seen most of your wardrobe,” said Sherlock. “There is nothing wrong with that coat. Just put the damned thing on.”

John looked at the place where the cape was attached to his coat, pulling at it carefully, but the stitching was unreasonably secure. “How on earth did you get this done in the time I was in the rock?” he asked. “Are you now a seamstress as well as everything else?”

“He does have a lot of unexpected skills,” put in the teddy-bear.

Sherlock sent him a dark look. “You are not being helpful,” he said.

The teddy-bear rolled its plastic eyes. There must be a mechanism for that in the suit, thought John. How clever. “John,” he said. “There's nothing wrong with the coat. If Sherlock has done something to it, then it's not something that other people can see.”

John looked back at the cape, and then at Sherlock. “You stitched an invisible cape to my coat?” he said. “What- Why? Why would anyone do that?”

“An extremely good question,” said Sherlock. He took the coat from John and held it out for him to put on. “One for which the answer will have to remain a mystery, I'm afraid. I'd quite like to get home sometime this year.”

John let out a sigh and put on the coat, letting Sherlock settle it on his shoulders. “I'll be taking it off when we get home,” he said. “Invisible or not, enough is enough. It really didn't need any more done to it, what with the sequins and all.”

The teddy-bear looked at John's coat with a frown. “Sequins...?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sometimes it's best not to ask,” he said. He put his hand on John's shoulder and guided him out of the cave, back out into the tunnel.

They walked back through the caves system, John following Sherlock closely and wondering how anyone could learn their way in a labyrinth like this. Some of the passages were only dimly lit, and once or twice a bat passed over their heads. John ducked instinctively the first time that happened, then sharply reminded himself that he had just spent a great deal of time in a lot closer proximity to them. The next time it happened, he forced himself to watch the way it swooped, wings spread, and found himself oddly fascinated by the sight. He turned to watch it go, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

“Don't dawdle, John.”

“I was just watching the bat,” said John. “I think I'm starting to see why you like them.”

“I don't-” started Sherlock, then broke off. “Fine, yes, but let's just get home, please.”

John blinked at the 'please', which was gritted out from between clenched teeth. He nodded. “Yeah, of course,” he said, starting to walk again. “We'll have a cup of tea. Are there any Hobnobs?”

“Only if Mrs. Hudson has gone shopping today,” said Sherlock.

John sighed. “You shouldn't expect her to do the shopping, you know,” he said. “She's not our housekeeper.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “No,” he agreed, “but she's a lot better at shopping than either of us would be right now.”

“Nothing wrong with my shopping skills,” protested John. “As long as I don't have to use those self-service check-outs.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I really don't see your problem with those. A lot more efficient than the usual cretins they have on the tills.”

Another bat flew over, and John followed its path, but didn't stop moving.

“I find them bloody infuriating,” said the teddy-bear. “And why do they have to be so loud? Does the whole shop really need to know that I haven't put something in the bagging area?”

“You see?” said John to Sherlock. “Even the teddy-bear agrees with me.”

The teddy-bear looked at him. “Teddy-bear?” he repeated.

“Sorry,” said John. “I didn't get your name earlier.”

There was a pause. Sherlock and the teddy-bear exchanged looks, then the teddy-bear said, “It's Mike,” in a quiet voice.

“Good to meet you,” said John, holding his hand out. After a moment, Mike shook it with his paw, then turned away.

“Come on,” said Sherlock, putting his hand on John's back again.

It wasn't until they emerged from the caves into the bright African sun that John remembered that getting home for a cup of tea was going to mean several more days on the sailing ship that had brought them to Marrakesh in the first place.

He let out a sigh as Sherlock signalled to his gondola to come in and pick them up. “I suppose there's no way for the captain to speed up our voyage home,” he said. “I'm not really in the mood for several more days at sea.”

Sherlock glanced at him, but before he could reply, there was the low thrum of a jet boat, and a long, low boat that was more akin to a barge than anything else came in to the beach next to them.

Sherlock eyed it with dismay. “Oh, the interfering bastard,” he muttered.

The figure that climbed out was dressed entirely in extremely tight black leather, so much so that it took John a moment to take his eyes off her figure long enough to realise who it was.

“Mr. Holmes thought you might be in need of a lift,” said Catwoman.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “We are perfectly capable of taking a cab,” he said, gesturing at the gondola. John supposed he didn't want a villain like Catwoman to know that it was one of Batman's vehicles, or even that he was Batman.

“Wouldn't it be easier to take Doctor Watson in a private vehicle?” she asked.

“I'll be perfectly fine on the gondola,” said John, bristling at the implications. “I'm not an invalid any more, you know.”

Catwoman gave him a careful look, then glanced back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock let out a sigh and glanced at the gondola. The gondolier climbed out. “You want a cab, mate?” he asked.

John frowned at him, taking in his appearance. It wasn't Alfred this time, it was some stranger. What was a stranger doing with Sherlock's Bat-Gondola?

“Sherlock,” he said in a worried voice, then stopped himself from saying more in front of Catwoman.

Sherlock glanced at him, then back at Catwoman. “Fine,” he said in a tight voice. “As long as Mycroft's not in there.”

Catwoman gave him a bland smile. “It'll be just the two of you.”

“Sorry,” said Sherlock to the gondolier. “You're not needed after all.”

The gondolier made a face and got back onto his boat, and Sherlock pulled John towards the barge.

“Wait,” said John, holding back. “Are you insane? You can't trust her.”

“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. “But on this occasion, she is merely following Mycroft's orders, and for all that he is a meddling prat, he's not going to do anything worse than take us home today.”

John looked at Catwoman. “You're sure she's working for Mycroft?” he asked. “Not for The Riddler or someone?”

“No, definitely Mycroft,” said Sherlock. He took John's hands in his. “Trust me, John. They're just going to take us home. Straight home, all the way to Baker Street.”

“We won't have to go on the ship?” asked John.

“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “They can take us all the way home, much quicker than we travelled here.”

“Right,” said John, still not certain about trusting that Catwoman wouldn't try and do something evil to them. After all, it wasn't as if there would be an easy escape once they were at sea.

Sherlock squeezed his hands. “Nothing bad will happen, John,” he said, and a glowing sphere spread out from their joined hands, passing through John's body with a warm tingle until it completely enclosed them.

John blinked. “Oh, magic,” he said. “I should have known you'd have some way of protecting us.”

Sherlock made an irritated noise, let go of his hands and got in the car. “Come on,” he said without looking back.

John sighed and wondered what he'd managed to say this time. Honestly, Sherlock was as highly-strung as a tight-rope over the Niagara Falls.

 

****

 

Taking Mycroft up on his offer of transportation was irritating, but at least in his car Sherlock didn't have to go through all the rigmarole of trying to get John into seatbelt. Anything that came close to being tied down always made him react badly, and Sherlock couldn't help remembering the tight straps that had held him down in Moriarty's torture chamber of a lab. Forcing John to stay tied down always made a sick feeling churn through his stomach, even if it had to be done.

John stayed calm enough on the way home, although he did spend some time crouched on the floor, apparently petting the carpet. Sherlock left him to it, far more exhausted than he should have been by a quick trip to Barts. _This must be what they call emotional exhaustion,_ he thought. Jumping through the hoops that John's hallucinations demanded, trying to work out what he was reacting to and providing an appropriate response and, worst of all, not allowing himself to snap and start shaking him, shouting that it was all just imaginary, was far more tiring than anything else he had ever experienced. He just wanted to get home and put a mug of tea into John's hand so that he'd sit down and be quiet for fifteen minutes. After that, he could get back to Doctor Gouldbourn's email. The results of today's test would take a couple of days, and it would likely take him a few more days to properly understand them – he made a mental note to find time to read some of the texts he had bought on that subject soon. Tonight, maybe, once John was asleep.

John climbed back up onto the seat, pressing his face against the window. “How long will it take to get home like this?” he said.

Sherlock glanced out to see how far they had got. “Another ten or fifteen minutes.”

John turned to him with wide eyes. “To get all the way from Marrakesh to London? Wow, that's fast.” He looked out of the window again, and Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, what he was seeing.

“Is that your magic or Mycroft's?” he asked, and Sherlock couldn't stop the irritated noise that forced its way out of his throat. All this talk of magic was excruciating. John glanced at him then nodded knowingly. “Ah, Mycroft's, of course. Otherwise we'd have used it to go there in the first place.”

Before Sherlock could respond to that, John plastered himself to the window again. “Look! The Eiffel Tower!”

Sherlock didn't look. He could feel a headache starting, and he rubbed at his temples, hoping it would go away. He didn't have time for a headache, there was far too much to do.

When they finally turned into Baker Street, Sherlock took John's shoulder and forced him to meet his gaze. Time to try and insert some reality into what John was going to see when they stepped out of the car. “We're home now,” he said. “Back at our flat on Baker Street.”

John grinned. “Excellent. The first thing we should do is make tea.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Sherlock, finding a smile to return to him.

When they got out of Mycroft's car, John jumped down as if from a great height, then steadied himself once he'd landed. Mycroft's assistant watched with an expressionless face, then turned to Sherlock.

“Your brother asked me to remind you that if you need help with anything at all, he would be happy to provide it.”

Sherlock scowled. “You mean, if I need help shutting John up in a home,” he said.

“He said I should emphasis that he will help with _anything_ ,” she said. “He said to tell you that he considers your actions in this case to be extremely courageous, and that you should not consider yourself alone in it.”

Sherlock felt his forehead begin to crease and glanced away before she could read his reaction to that on his face. John was standing on the pavement, looking around with obvious pleasure.

“It's good to be home,” he said, with a lot more feeling than the handful of hours they had been gone called for. Sherlock wondered how long they had been gone from Baker Street in John's head.

“I'm not alone,” he said to Mycroft's assistant. “I have John.” He strode forward to John's side before she could respond to that. “Come on, John,” he said. “Let's get that tea.”

“Excellent idea,” said John, following him to the door of 221 and waiting as he unlocked it. As they stepped inside, he said, “Oh,” in the tone of voice that had Sherlock bracing himself. “A circus! Please tell me there aren't any clowns in my bedroom.”

“No clowns at all,” said Sherlock, pushing John towards the stairs. “Not anywhere in the flat.”

“Oh, good,” said John. “Can't stand the things.”

Sherlock added 'clowns' to the list of harmless things that John seemed to find threatening, just underneath 'bats'. He followed John up the stairs, his mind now firmly fixed on that cup of tea. He was going to need it if he had to try and understand brain chemistry while John interacted with invisible trapeze artists.

 

****

 

Four years later, they were hot on the trail when Sherlock dragged John into a cave with a claim that there would be important evidence in it.

“See?” he said, pointing to a barely-there scrape on the rock. “The murderer clearly came in here after killing Tony Somers.” He crouched down, tracking his torch over the floor. “This way,” he said, and headed off towards the back of the cave, where there was a damp-looking pile of rubble. “Oh,” he breathed, and bent down to examine it.

John didn't bother asking what he'd found. He stood back and wondered when, or even if, there was going to be time for him to have some dinner tonight. Given that it was already getting dark outside, he suspected that the bacon sarnie he'd had for lunch was going to have to last him until whenever they'd cornered and subdued the killer.

“Of course,” said Sherlock to himself, and started digging his way through the rocks.

There was a movement overhead and John ducked instinctively, sending the light of his torch to illuminate whatever it was. He let out a surprised half-laugh when he realised he was looking at a small huddle of bats, clinging to the ceiling.

“Christ, I thought there was someone else in here,” he said.

Sherlock glanced at the bats, and then back at John with a faint frown. For a horrible moment John thought he was going to say that there was nothing there and that the bats were a hallucination, but instead all he did was turn back to his pile of rocks. “They're harmless,” he said.

“I know,” said John, looking back at them. He could see that his torchlight was making them shift about, one opening his wings and flapping for a bit before settling again. “You know,” he said, “I used to be terrified of them when I was younger.”

There was silence but for Sherlock's digging, then he said, in a tight voice. “Not just when you were younger. You hallucinated about them.”

John made a face, picturing that and hoping he hadn't acted too much like a six-year-old confronted with a spider. “Oh god, did I? Sorry.”

Sherlock looked up from his pile of rocks in order to give him a very sharp look. “No apologies.”

John held up his hands defensively, and the torchlight flickered across the bats again, making them restless. “Right, of course not,” he said. “Why on earth should I be sorry for all the hassle I put you through?”

“I have no idea,” said Sherlock, turning back to his rocks. “Apologies are for things you are responsible for. You were responsible for nothing you did while in that condition, and all the people who are responsible are now dead.”

He sounded extremely pleased about their deaths, but John wasn't about to argue with him over it. The idea that Moriarty had brought together several scientists with the sole intention of leaving him permanently mentally damaged was incredibly unsettling, and he wasn't sure how he'd feel if he knew any of them were still alive. He couldn't help feeling that they'd got what was coming to them – being murdered by Moriarty was surely an accepted risk of doing business with him?

“Okay then,” he said instead. “Am I allowed to regret that you had to go through all that, at least?”

“If you must,” said Sherlock, shuffling sideways to dig through another section of the rock pile. “As long as you do it quietly.”

John let out a loud sigh, but didn't bother with more than that. He turned back to the bats instead, watching the way they moved in the torchlight. One of them let go of its perch to fly across to another and John tracked it, fascinated by the shape of their wings.

“Well, I'm not scared of them now,” he said. “They're rather interesting, aren't they?”

“They're the only flying mammal,” said Sherlock. “They make up a quarter of all mammals and there are more than a thousand species.”

John gaped at him. “Why on earth do you know that?” he asked. Trivia about animals was almost certainly on Sherlock's 'irrelevant information' list.

Sherlock looked up to give him a smirk. “Didn't you know? I'm Batman.”

John blinked, then started laughing, unable to keep it in. Sherlock gave him a satisfied grin before he turned back to the rocks.

Another couple of minutes passed while John watched the bats and Sherlock kept hunting for whatever it was he thought he was going to find, then Sherlock broke the silence.

“I took you for an MRI,” he said, “and you thought I'd trapped you in a cave full of them. You were terrified. I'd told you that you had to stay still, though, so you did. You didn't move even once – the images were wonderfully clear.”

John had no idea how to respond to that. He cast his mind back, trying to dig through the blur that was his memories of that time, but the whole thing was nothing more than a faded dream now.

“You somehow always manage to defy my expectations,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice, and John had even less idea what to say to that. Sherlock cleared his throat, and added, in a steadier tone, “I suspect the event acted as some sort of immersion therapy. Certainly you seemed less afraid of the things by the time we were leaving Barts.”

John looked back at the bats and let out a little laugh. “So, you've cured not only my brain disorder and my psychosomatic limp, but also my bat phobia? Seriously, Sherlock, they should just award you an honorary medical degree at this point.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “That would just get confusing, Doctor.” There was the sharp ring of something metallic and he let out a pleased noise. “Let's see what our murderer considered important enough to hide in here, shall we?”

John turned away from the bats to see him open a small tin that he had unearthed from the rock pile.

“Oh, fascinating,” said Sherlock, then leapt to his feet. “Come on, John! There's no time to lose!”

He grabbed John's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his lips, then ran out of the cave. John glanced at the bats one last time before following after him, leaving them to settle back down in peace.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: Bats In My Belfry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173691) by [Trishkafibble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishkafibble/pseuds/Trishkafibble)
  * [(PODFIC) Bats in My Belfry by FlawedAmythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519095) by [AvidReaderLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvidReaderLady/pseuds/AvidReaderLady)




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